Penis envy? I doubt it exists
past the age of, say, five...
except perhaps in this small advantage
of being able to relieve myself
while walking on a trail in the woods
without having to squat abashedly
or leave behind a blossom of tissue
pollinated with a few drops of pee.
And there is something in this
beyond mere convenience:
in these moments of quiet splashing
when I stand unthinkingly exposing
myself to the day, briefly captive
to my bodily functions, in this pause
when I wait for myself to catch up
with myself, I look around
and notice something, finally,
however insignificant – sunlight sliding
along a spider’s filament, the crinkly
asterisks of witch-hazel in flower,
a panicle of goldenrod nodding
under the weight of a bumblebee –
before zipping back into my pants
my unenviable penis.
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